by Rebecca Tope
She got back five minutes after opening time, congratulating herself on a performance that outstripped her own expected schedule. It was going to be a good day, she promised herself. Spring was coming, and flowers were sure to sell spectacularly.
There were already two people in the shop, which brought both relief and surprise. Bonnie was still in her coat, facing a woman even smaller than herself – at least by a vertical measurement. Simmy’s surprise turned to apprehension as her startled memory finally identified who it was. ‘Mrs Townsend,’ she said, with a nod. Then to Bonnie, ‘How’s your cold?’
‘About the same,’ said the girl. ‘It’s freezing in here.’
‘Yes, I know. Go and put the heating on. I’ve done all those deliveries,’ she added proudly.
‘That was quick,’ said Bonnie without much expression. ‘You’ll be bored all day now.’
‘No I won’t.’ Simmy threw an embarrassed glance at Gillian Townsend, who seemed eager to have her say about something, but was unsure as to Bonnie’s role. Simmy could read the thoughts: was this a daughter, customer, passing stray, or what? ‘This is my assistant, Bonnie Lawson. She works here,’ Simmy explained. ‘So, what can we do for you?’ She felt brisk almost to the point of impatience. There was nothing this woman could say that would be agreeable.
Gillian took a breath, and Simmy was reminded of her illness, and the perpetual discomfort she was likely to be suffering as a result. ‘I came to apologise, mainly. I know we promised to let you know on Saturday whether or not Anita’s party would be going ahead, and then we just left it hanging. Did that police detective give you the message? He said he would, but I wasn’t sure he’d remember.’
‘He did, thanks. I’m sorry about your friend’s son-in-law. It must have been awful for all of you when they found him.’
‘How much do you know?’ The question was bald, and Simmy became instantly defensive.
‘Not much. But given that I was questioned by a police officer, I suppose I deserve a bit of an explanation.’
‘When?’ Bonnie interposed. ‘When were you questioned?’
‘After you’d gone yesterday, if you must know. Moxon turned up here.’
‘I’m really sorry,’ Gillian said again. ‘It was mean of us to drag you into it, I know. But they were so insistent that Anita give an account of her movements that we thought it would help if we could give an independent witness to confirm where she was on Friday.’
‘What?’ Bonnie’s inquisitiveness was verging on the outrageous. She was bouncing on her toes like a five-year-old. ‘What’s happened?’
‘Stop it,’ Simmy ordered her. ‘Behave yourself. Go and get the heating on, and make some tea or something. This is none of your business.’
‘I know, but …’ The girl rolled her eyes to express how earnestly she wanted to be involved. Just as earnestly as Simmy wanted not to be. The irony was evident to them both.
‘Go,’ said Simmy. ‘You’re being rude.’
‘It’s all right,’ said Gillian. ‘It’s not secret, after all. I mean, there’s absolutely nothing for us to hide. Anita hasn’t done anything and I’m determined to prove it.’
This sounded odd to both Simmy and Bonnie. ‘Oh?’ said Simmy.
‘You can’t prove a negative,’ said Bonnie. ‘At least, you can, but it’s difficult.’
‘Fortunately, the law understands that, which is why the onus is on the prosecution to make a convincing case. But there are such things as alibis and witnesses, who can testify to the effect that the suspect could not possibly have committed the crime.’
Simmy reminded herself that this woman was a solicitor, and as far as she was aware solicitors did not participate in trials, either as prosecution or defence. But she supposed they knew people who did, and could act as part of a team, if necessary.
Bonnie had nodded impatiently through the little lecture. ‘Yes, I know,’ she said. ‘My boyfriend is interested in all that sort of thing.’
‘Oh? He’s a law student, is he?’ Gillian smiled to soften her words. ‘I mean – he sounds very impressive,’ she added.
The girl lifted her delicate chin and met the woman’s eye. ‘He’s got a place at Newcastle to do a first degree in forensic science,’ she said grandly. ‘And he plans to go to America after that, as a postgraduate. He’s going to be a forensic archaeologist.’
‘Well, bully for him. That’s the next five years or so all mapped out, then.’
For the first time, Simmy wondered what the effect of separation would be on the young couple, if indeed they allowed themselves to be parted. Ben would go off to university in October – which suddenly didn’t seem so very far away – and Bonnie might easily insist on going with him. She could find work close by, and stick by his side for the duration of his course.
‘He’s very clever,’ Simmy said. ‘It’s almost frightening at times.’
‘You know him, then?’
Simmy smiled. ‘Yes, I do. You could say that he and Bonnie got together through me – although they were at school together before that.’
Gillian Townsend was clearly not very interested in young love. She had a hand pressed to her lower abdomen, and her face looked damp. ‘Anyway,’ she said. ‘I hope you won’t be troubled any more about this business in Anita’s family. The police have got completely the wrong idea about it all.’ She shook her head. ‘I can’t imagine what they think they can achieve. As if it wasn’t bad enough that Declan’s dead, without all this suspicion and accusation flying about. It’s absolute nonsense to treat it as deliberate murder. Far more likely to have been an accident. It’s ruined everything.’
‘The party,’ Simmy said.
‘That’s the least of it. Poor Anita feels terrible about it all. Her daughter’s distraught, and blaming her. But you don’t want to hear all the sordid details. When it’s all over, we’ll have that party, just as planned. I’ll let you know.’
‘Thanks,’ said Simmy, speaking over Bonnie’s attempt to ask another question. The girl had ignored the order to go and switch the heating on, glued to the conversation. Simmy knew she was avid to glean every detail she could, in order to pass the whole story on to Ben. And, in spite of herself, she would have liked to know a bit more. ‘So you’re saying the police really do think Anita might have been involved in Declan’s death? And you’re acting on her behalf – professionally?’ Quite why she couldn’t simply let it go was obscure to her. Afterwards, she realised that this had been the pivotal moment when she might have escaped from the whole thing, once and for all.
‘Involved!’ Gillian shot back. ‘The fools think she killed him. They listened to Debbie and Declan’s idiot father, and now they think she cold-bloodedly crashed into his bike and sent him flying into a ditch.’
Of course, the implication had been there since the previous afternoon, but nobody had said the words outright. Anita Olsen was under suspicion of having deliberately killed her son-in-law and then concealing the fact. The woman Simmy had experienced as perfectly pleasant and civilised, if a trifle detached and silent, was thought to be capable of murder. A retiring solicitor in her mid sixties, helping to plan her own celebratory party, had instead attracted the attentions of a criminal investigation.
‘That’s ridiculous,’ said Simmy. ‘You must have got it wrong. I hadn’t realised he was on a bike,’ she added as an afterthought. It made the whole idea of an accidental killing more likely – didn’t cyclists get slaughtered all the time?
‘I’m afraid you don’t understand. Why should you? It all goes back a long way. I don’t remember quite what was said on Friday, but you will have been aware that Declan was missing, and everybody was worried about him – including Anita. Prior to that, Debbie, Anita’s daughter, had fallen out with her mother because of her behaviour towards Declan.’
‘Yes,’ said Simmy, as much of what Moxon had told her began to fit into the picture. ‘And Debbie has a brother as well. What does he think about it all?’
/> ‘He was the first to accuse Anita – his own mother – of having at least had something to do with Declan’s death. Honestly, it’s been the most ghastly weekend. Anita’s been in tears for most of it. She’s staying with me for the time being. I can’t let her be on her own, she’s in such a state. I live in Kendal, not far from our office. I thought it would help her to stay away from Staveley for a bit.’
‘Well, I’m glad to have helped, even if only slightly. After all, I was with you for barely an hour. I can’t imagine what else I can do or say that would be of the slightest use.’ She had intended to say and we know how hard it is to pinpoint the time a person dies when she thought better of it. For all she knew, there were indications other than a physical examination of the body to account for the moment of Declan’s demise. Someone hearing a cry, or a squeal of brakes, perhaps.
Gillian was inattentive, moving towards the door, having glanced at her watch. ‘Sorry,’ she muttered. ‘I’ve got a client due soon, and it’ll take me nearly half an hour from here.’
‘Well …’ said Simmy vaguely, unsure of where she stood.
‘I do wish we could have a bit longer. You’re so easy to talk to, and I honestly think you’d be able to help us.’ She turned a beseeching face up at Simmy. ‘It’s all such a strain, you see. I’ve known Anita for thirty years and more. This has come completely out of the blue. It’s terribly unfair.’
Simmy said nothing more than ‘Mmm’, her own thoughts straying elsewhere. However certain the police might be, she found it hard to credit that there had in fact been a murder at all. Was it not much more likely to have been an accident, with the driver oblivious to what he or she had done? Or too panicked to stop and do the right thing, having realised they’d hit a person? The car would be dented and bloodied, most likely, and easy for the police to find and examine.
‘If I could just use your toilet before I go …’ Gillian said suddenly. ‘I’m really sorry, but …’
‘No problem,’ said Simmy. ‘It’s just off the room at the back. I’ll show you.’ She led the way into the tiny lavatory with its sliding door that stuck halfway, and the threadbare bit of carpet underfoot. ‘Sorry it’s a bit tatty.’
Gillian barely waited for the door to close before yanking at her clothes, and Simmy made a tactful retreat. It was some time before the woman emerged again, her face even damper than before. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I’m so sorry about that.’
‘No problem,’ said Simmy again, thinking it would ease the embarrassment if she told the woman she knew about her illness. But before she could find the words, Gillian was gone.
She was hardly out of sight before Bonnie began dancing again. ‘Oh, wow!’ she yodelled. ‘Another murder. Ben’s going to be so frustrated. I’ll have to do everything for him – gathering facts, and making a flow chart. He showed me how to do that, you know. I love flow charts.’
Simmy was not entirely certain of what a flow chart was, but it did sound efficient. Perhaps she could do with one herself. ‘In your own time, then,’ she said. She almost regretted the passing of the girl’s cold, which had served to at least slightly quell her exuberance. ‘Looks as if your cold’s almost better, anyway,’ she said.
Bonnie stopped bouncing and gave her a penetrating look. ‘What’s the matter with you? Why have you been so off lately? Corinne thinks you’re turning into your mother – which wouldn’t be a good thing. You’re much nicer than her. It can’t be because of Christopher, can it? That should be making you all happy and moony, not bad-tempered and impatient.’
Simmy’s instant reaction was to snarl at the girl and put her in her place. But her better nature prevented her. ‘Impatient?’ she repeated. ‘Have I been impatient?’
‘A bit. Rushing about and moaning about Mother’s Day. And apart from your dad losing his marbles, I can’t see what you’ve got to complain about. Everything’s going pretty nicely as far as I can see.’
‘I wouldn’t say that. This business with Tony, for a start, is nagging at me. And now there’s been something horrible in Staveley, and they’re trying to involve me in it. It’s all worrying and stressful.’
‘Okay – but you were stressed before that. A month ago, even. All this stuff is just making it worse.’
‘Oh.’ Simmy thought about it, crediting Bonnie with good intentions as well as courage in confronting the situation. ‘I guess it’s to do with my age. I’ll be forty before I know it, and it scares me. Silly, I know, but it doesn’t seem to be something I can control.’
‘You want a baby,’ said Bonnie flatly. ‘That’s what it is. Simple.’
To her horror and shame, Simmy started crying. As the tears erupted, she understood that they had been pent up for a long time. So much had happened in the past four or five years, piling distress upon loss, fear upon anxiety until she felt pummelled on all sides. All she could do was to remain upright and get through the daily tasks.
Bonnie did not panic, as might have been expected. She acted as if she’d spent a lifetime dealing with weeping women – which perhaps she had. ‘It’s okay,’ she said. ‘Go out the back for a minute. I’ll see to any customers.’
A lesser girl might have apologised for breaching the floodgates, but Bonnie evidently saw no such need. Simmy meekly did as instructed, barely capable of rational thought. She still wasn’t clear as to why she was crying anyway. Where was her self-control? What was the matter with her? A noxious smell wafted from the little toilet, reminding her that other people had much worse trouble to cope with.
It took less than five minutes to recover her balance and return to business. ‘Gosh, that came out of nowhere,’ she said with a feeble grin.
‘Yeah,’ said Bonnie. ‘And you know what? We’ve both been sent to the back room this morning. But when you tried to make me go out there, I ignored you. And you did what you were told.’
‘Maybe we should change places, then. You might make a better boss than me.’
‘Yeah,’ said Bonnie again, with a flash of mischief. ‘That might not be a bad idea.’
The day turned out to be busier than for many weeks. Buckets of daffodils still in bud were emptied as fast as they could replenish them. ‘We should charge more for them, if they’re in such demand,’ said Simmy. ‘I thought the supermarkets would take all that business.’
‘People buy them on impulse,’ said Bonnie. ‘Just passing by, and they think – “Ooh, they look nice. Better get a few.”’
‘Most of them must have their own daffs in the garden. And the woods are full of them.’
‘Yes, but they don’t want to pick them, do they? And it makes them feel all Wordsworthy to have a houseful.’
Simmy laughed. Since her unscheduled descent into a weeping fit, she had felt strangely light-hearted, as if some kind of blockage had been washed away. It also made her feel very foolish, and she hoped Bonnie would refrain from telling anybody about it.
They made no reference to it, anyway, which was a relief. Nor did Bonnie ask questions or form theories about the death of the man in Staveley. Simmy supposed that the girl was waiting for Ben to appear, at which point another pair of floodgates would probably burst and there’d be a spate of talk about it. There might even be a flow chart, she thought wearily. Ben would want to know names, dates and other details, not that he had time to take the matter on as a project.
But Ben never materialised. There was a text sent to Bonnie’s phone at three o’clock to tell her he was staying late at school and then going straight home. ‘Some sort of experiment he can’t leave,’ said the girl ruefully. ‘Never mind. We knew it would be like this until the middle of June. Only three and a half months to go.’
Instead of Ben, there was another arrival; another person coming for conversation rather than plants or flowers. A woman came through the shop door, looking around herself as if expecting to be accosted. She wore a woolly hat that had a very obvious hole in it, and her face was smudged with greyish marks. But it was a pretty face, ju
st the same, on a woman in her thirties, above average height with strands of fair hair escaping the impossible hat. The smudges showed every sign of being caused by tears, not unlike Simmy’s own cheeks had been when she’d checked in the mirror earlier that day.
‘Hello? Are you Persimmon Brown?’ The voice was sweet and soft and halting.
‘That’s right. What can I do for you?’ Simmy was never going to say How can I help you? if she could possibly avoid it. Nor What do you need?
‘I’m Debbie Kennedy. I think you met my mother last week, in Staveley? She’s called Anita Olsen.’
‘Oh! Gosh. Yes. Your husband …’
‘Declan. He died on Friday.’
Simmy knew better than to think the widow had come about funeral flowers. It was too soon, for one thing, and her complete lack of interest in the displays on all sides confirmed the fact that she was here for something else. ‘I heard,’ she said. ‘I’m really sorry.’
Bonnie was on her knees amongst a collection of tall grasses, not immediately visible. Now she got up, making a deliberate noise, and Mrs Kennedy whirled round. Why was she so nervy, Simmy wondered. Bonnie gave a little smile of apology, and said, ‘Only me,’ in a light little voice.
‘I know who you are,’ said the woman. ‘You were in the papers over that trouble in Hawkshead last summer. They said you were a hero. Really brave. I wanted to meet you then, to see what you were like.’